What My Best Friend Did

by Lucy Dawson

  ‘But she could write?’ I ask. ‘If she came round.’

  ‘She’d find a way to communicate with us.’

  The nurse looks at me steadily.

  ‘I’m scared that she’s conscious but paralysed,’ I say, which isn’t true and if Gretchen can hear me, she’ll be doing an inward sardonic snort right now. Actually she won’t, she’ll have other things on her mind, like why and how her carefully laid plans have gone so awry – thanks to me. ‘You promised,’ I can hear her saying. ‘Some best friend you turned out to be!’

  ‘I read a book recently about a French man that happened to, it was called locked-in syndrome,’ I say, trying to focus on the real sound of my own voice.

  ‘That’s not what this is,’ the nurse assures me, and then pauses before saying, ‘Gretchen won’t be able to communicate with us until she regains consciousness and she’s very ill, she’s not going to just wake up like you see in the films. I’m sorry.’

  We fall silent and I look at Gretchen again, feeling more tears well up. Oh, Gretch. How the hell did we wind up here? How can this be happening to us? I just want to go back to us laughing together, laughing so much we could barely stand, I can even hear the sound of it! Please, I want those moments back.

  I can’t do this – I can’t just sit in this room pretending. Not when I know, I know what we both did . . .

  ‘I have to go and check my messages,’ I say, unable to bear it a moment longer, standing up so quickly I surprise my legs and they almost give way beneath me. ‘In case Tom has called me.’

  ‘OK,’ the nurse says and smiles encouragingly, but I’ve already turned and I’m bursting back out into the corridor and practically running out of the ICU, shoving determinedly out through the double doors back into the main hospital. I see an exit. Having pushed through the door with a sickening relief, I find myself in what looks like a small, spill-over staff car park. I’ve no idea where I am in relation to A&E now – I’ve completely lost my bearings. I just scrabble in my bag for my phone and switch it on. I have three new messages.

  The first one is Tom, left twenty minutes after I called him. ‘Alice? What the hell has happened?’ He sounds cross but I can tell it’s because he’s very frightened. ‘What do you mean you’re both at the hospital? Why? Look, if you get this in the next five minutes call me back, OK?’

  The next one is him, six minutes later. ‘It’s me again. I’m going to call the hospital.’

  And then, eighteen minutes after that, him shouting above a roaring car engine, obviously on the road, saying, ‘I’m on my way, don’t panic, Alice. It’ll be all right. I’ll be there just as soon as possible, I promise. I’ve left Bath – I don’t know how long it’ll take me – but luckily I’m going against the traffic, I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  I picture him gripping the steering wheel firmly with one hand, mobile to his ear with the other, hurtling down the motorway in his work suit, and it makes me want to cry with relief that he is on his way. My bottom lip trembles and tears spring to the corners of my eyes. Thank God. I feel better just having heard his voice.

  Tom is a fixer, someone to rely on. He’s the sort of person friends ring when they need advice on selling a car, filling out a tax return or have some heavy furniture that needs moving. My dad wanted me to marry Tom the second he found out he owned a fully stocked tool kit – with no bits missing – and knew what to do with it. He sorted a leaking tap for me the first day I met him, for God’s sake.

  ‘That should do it,’ he said, climbing out of the bath – fully suited sadly – and turning the tap on and off experimentally, still clutching the pair of pliers I’d given him, the only tool-type thing I’d been able to find in the whole flat. My flatmate Vic and I stared at the tap, waiting for the inevitable drip to begin – but it didn’t. We were totally delighted.

  ‘So Tom,’ Vic said quickly. ‘You’re a management consultant – which sounds well paid and stable . . .’

  Tom nodded modestly.

  ‘You’re a friend of a friend so you’re unlikely to be a lunatic,’ Vic continued. ‘You can mend things . . .’

  And you’re fit, I thought, staring as his light blue eyes crinkled behind his glasses because he’d smiled.

  ‘The room’s yours if you want it,’ Vic said, having looked at me for the OK first.

  ‘That’s it?’ he laughed. ‘Don’t you want to see any references? You should, you know,’ he said, suddenly serious. ‘I could be anyone. I’m not – but I could be.’

  But he was of course the model flatmate and, it turned out ten months later, boyfriend.

  The phone rings in my already cold, numb hand. It’s him. ‘Tom?’ I answer quickly. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘. . . fen . . . M4 . . . like a wanker . . . but flyover . . . passed Olympia . . . twenty min . . .’ It’s cutting in and out so badly I can barely hear him, but it sounds like he’s still in the car. ‘. . . happened? . . . hospital reception and I’ll . . .’ Then it goes completely dead. I call him back but it goes straight to voicemail. He said twenty minutes though – I heard that. Gripping my phone like a talisman, I try to go back in through the door I just came out of, but discover I can’t because it requires a code.

  I spend the next ten minutes walking faster and faster around the outside of the hospital, following signs that say they are taking me to the main reception but in fact lead me down unlit, narrow passageways between very dark, old red-brick clinic buildings which have open curtains on eerily empty rooms. I try not to look in through the windows as I speed past them, scared of glimpsing ghostly figures moving silently around inside – past patients who died there and are now bound to the austere Victorian building for ever. I’m almost sick with the fear I’ve worked myself into and have to, need to, hear someone’s familiar, no-nonsense voice. So I call Frances.

  ‘Hello?’ My elder sister answers the phone with a hushed tone.

  ‘It’s me.’ My voice is wavering around all over the place, not just because of my hurried footsteps.

  ‘Oh hi, Al. Look I’m really sorry, but now’s not a great time – I’ve just put Freddie down. He’s really unsettled tonight.’

  I try to picture Frances sitting in her neat little semidetached, curtains regimentally pulled, tea washed up, TV on – calm and normal.

  ‘It’s a dreadful line anyway,’ she says. ‘It sounds like you’re in a wind tunnel.’

  I turn a corner sharply, look to my left and nearly collapse with relief. Oh thank God – I can see the front of A&E. I slow down, trying to catch my breath as I walk past several stationary ambulances, but then leap out of my skin as one suddenly blasts out a brief siren, begins to flash its lights and then swiftly pulls away to go and rescue somebody else. I hadn’t even noticed a driver was sitting in the dark front seat.

  ‘Where are you?’ Frances says immediately.

  I take a breath. ‘I’m—’

  ‘Oh no!’ she interrupts. ‘I think Freddie heard that. Oh please God, don’t let him wake up! Just don’t say anything Alice!’ she whispers urgently and obediently I fall silent, although I can’t help but wonder how Freddie could possibly have heard an ambulance down a phone that he’s probably nowhere near. He’s a baby, not a bat.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she breathes. ‘He’s fine. Actually I’m glad you rang, I can’t get hold of Mum. Do you know where she is? I’ve tried at home, but there’s no answer. They can’t all be out – it’s a Thursday night!’

  I pause, knowing full well that, on my advice, Mum and Dad have taken to unplugging the phone during meal times for half an hour of peace from the incessant baby-related calls. They’ve probably forgotten to plug it back in again.

  ‘Freddie feels a little flushed,’ Frances says. ‘And he’s only just recovered from that cough last week. I think it might be the start of pneumonia and Adam’s still at work.’

  ‘I have no idea where Mum is,’ I say and then I burst into tears.

  ‘Alice? Are you crying? What on earth is th
e matter?’

  ‘I’m at the hospital and—’

  ‘Why? Are you hurt?’ Frances says sharply, automatically swinging into big sister mode.

  ‘No,’ I begin. ‘I’m fine but—’

  But she bulldozes over me, ‘You’re not ill? Nothing’s broken?’

  This is typical Frances. Back in secondary school, there was a group of ‘cool’ girls in my class who bullied everyone from time to time. They used to cluster round their victim in the corridors between classes, always one of the worst times, or at lunch when the teachers would be shut away in the staffroom reading the paper, having a fag and angrily watching the clock hands which had dragged all morning suddenly whizzing round.

  It was my turn on the day I was the only person to get an A in art and the teacher warmly and stupidly praised me in front of the whole class. The cool girls’ eyes all swivelled on to me – and I just knew what was going to happen at break.

  Sure enough, six of them circled round me on the top corridor and began jostling and pushing me. I kept quiet and looked at the floor, because saying anything only made it worse. I’d seen what they’d done to poor Catherine Gibbons, who’d bravely chanted ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones.’

  One of the girls had just given me a rather half-hearted push that made me stumble and clutch my bag a little tighter when, amid their increasingly bored jeers, there was a sudden bellow of ‘HEY!’ We all turned to see Frances steamrollering towards us, red in the face with rage. Within seconds she grabbed the ringleader round the neck and growled, ‘You touch my little sister again and I’ll break your face, understand?’

  She dumped the girl down, at which point they all scarpered. I remember she looked at me and sighed. ‘Pull your shirt out, Al, no one tucks it in like that . . .’

  ‘Alice,’ she says, waiting for me to answer her. ‘You’re frightening me. Are you sure nothing’s wrong with you?’

  I take a deep breath and try to calm down. ‘It’s not me. I’ve brought Gretchen in.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Frances snorts. ‘You poor thing! Your friends are such drama queens. You’re too nice for your own good Alice, you really are. I take it this is some sort of alcohol-related injury you’re having to surpervise?’

  ‘Kind of. I went round to her flat earlier this evening and—’ I suddenly really want to tell her. I am, however, interrupted by a thin wail in the background.

  ‘Oh I don’t believe it!’ Frances says. ‘He’s awake. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You promise me you’re all right, Al?’

  The crying in the background becomes louder with renewed vigour – it’s a lusty, determined demand for attention and I can’t help but feel a moment of respect for my tiny, no doubt scarlet-faced nephew.

  ‘How the hell can you be awake already?’ Frances says in disbelief. ‘I only fed you fifteen minutes ago.’ She lets out a heavy, slightly desperate sigh.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. ‘Fran,’ I insist, ‘I’m fine. I can deal with this. You go.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’ I can hear the relief in her voice. ‘What’s happened to Gretchen anyway?’

  Freddie cranks up the volume to a level that could break glass.

  ‘Nothing, nothing major. I’ll call you later if I need to.’

  ‘Just try Mum, OK?’ she says guiltily. ‘She’ll know what to do. They might be back by now. If you get her, tell her to call me when you’re done, all right?’

  ‘OK,’ I say dully, a fresh tear trickling down my cheek, and then she hangs up without even saying goodbye. I want to dial her back straight away and say, ‘Actually I do need you. I’m frightened, Fran!’ Instead, I dial my parents and begin to walk slowly down to the main doors. But just as Frances said, it just rings and rings before eventually going to answerphone.

  So I dial my younger brother Phil’s number. If he’s at home, he can go downstairs and tell them to plug the phone back in, that I want to speak to them. I suddenly very urgently need to talk to Mum or Dad – have someone tell me this is going to be all right because—

  ‘This is Phil. I can’t come to the phone right now, I’m probably busy. And by busy, I mean out. And by out I mean having a smoke. You can leave a message, but no promises, alriiittttteeee?’

  For a moment I can see exactly how Phil can drive my dad into a rage in under five seconds flat. What kind of recorded message is that given prospective graduate employers might be calling him? He won’t even get an interview, never mind a job. I just hang up and drop my phone into my bag in defeat.

  I glance desperately up at the black sky and try to calm myself down. There are no stars, and no navigation lights of planes visible either. I can hear one, distantly buried in the thick cloud above my head. I can’t see it, but I wish I were on it, going somewhere, anywhere away from here.

  I bring my head down and look at my watch. Has it been twenty minutes yet? Tom must be nearly here by now. He could have parked and slipped in another door? Perhaps he’s up there already? I don’t want him walking into Gretchen’s room on his own.

  I hurriedly clatter up the disabled ramp leading to A&E, arms tightly wrapped round myself. The persistent wind is managing to bite at my very bones, but before I can plunge back into the stifling warmth of the hospital, the mechanism of the automatic double doors yanks into action and a mother and daughter begin to slowly hobble through. I have to stand to one side to let them pass. The daughter supports the mum as she leans heavily on her and a crutch. She’s perspiring with the effort, even though it’s freezing, and is clutching furiously at her daughter’s hand. I glance at her heavily bandaged foot and notice two unattractive purple toes peeking out at the top, adorned with fat blobs of coral polish. ‘Well done, Mum,’ the daughter says kindly. ‘Dad’s just bringing the car round. Nearly there.’

  The mother glances up to thank me for waiting and her eyes widen briefly as she takes me in. I catch sight of my reflection in the glass and raise a hand self-consciously to my jaw, twisting my face slightly so I can get a better look. There is nothing obviously untoward, just my pale, makeup-smudged face; red eyes and nose attractively set off by my long, unstyled dark hair, but she’s right – I’m a state. My baggy tracksuit bottoms and old hoodie top complete the look, but then, I thought I had a night in front of the TV ahead of me, not this.

  I drop my head and dart past them as soon as I’m able to. Scanning the waiting room, I can see no sign of Tom, only a drunk verbally abusing the receptionist, so I step away hurriedly, moving towards the corridor that I think will lead me to the ICU.

  But once I’m back up there, I pause outside the heavy doors leading on to the unit. He will be here by now, won’t he? I don’t want him in there without me, but I don’t want to sit waiting alone either.

  The doors unexpectedly swing open, nearly hitting me as a doctor marches through with energy. ‘Sorry!’ he says automatically, though he also frowns slightly as if he’s thinking, ‘bloody stupid place to stand’, so I walk through. I can’t just stand here like a weirdo doing nothing.

  The nurse looks up expectantly and then smiles with recognition as I enter the room. Tom is not there. I don’t look at Gretchen, just put my bag back under the chair and sink down on to it uncomfortably. As I wipe my nose, which is streaming from the cold outside, I wonder for a moment if the nurse can tell I’ve been crying. But she’d expect me to have been, wouldn’t she?

  Eventually, after staring at the floor for what feels like for ever, I shoot a glance at Gretchen. I can’t help it, I don’t want to, but she looks just the same as when I left. Calm and, ironically, untroubled – but equally she looks sick, colourless. Once, I would have wanted her to be sitting up in bed, excited and shrieking, a wide smile across her face as I push her down the corridors, making doctors and nurses leap to safety as we hurtle past them. That couldn’t happen. Not now.

  Oh, if I could go back and change it all I would! I really, really would. I would give anything to be us just starting out again. I should have done what she aske
d, I know I should have. She needed me and I didn’t do it . . .

  I can feel myself creasing and crumpling up inside. I’m scared and the chair suddenly feels like it’s shrinking under me – the whole room feels too small. Gretchen looks scarily fragile, vulnerable, and yet I am too terrified to touch her. My own friend.

  I start to cry, and that is unfortunately how Tom finds me as he bursts into the room in a creased work suit, tie askew, shaken and breathless from having run in to find us.

  Chapter Three

  He visibly blanches at the sight of Gretchen hooked up to all manner of machines and a drip. Literally stops in his tracks in the doorway, like Road Runner screeching to a halt.

  The nurse opens her mouth to say something, but I’m too quick for her. The reassuring sight of someone so familiar to me is totally overwhelming, and through my tears I say, ‘Oh Tom! You’re here!’ as I’m mid-way up and out of my chair. It scrapes back underneath me and the noise goes through all of our teeth, but I don’t care – I just fling myself into his arms so hard I almost knock him off his feet.

  He automatically wraps his arms round me, hugs me. It’s tight and reassuring and he presses me very tight to his chest. I can feel the shape of his pec muscles under his clothes and even though I want to stay there, because he’s hugging me so close, all I can breathe in is shirt, so reluctantly I pull back and, as I do, his arms loosen around me and drop to his side. I look up at him and he’s just staring at Gretchen, shocked rigid.

  ‘What the hell has happened?’ he whispers. All of his usual poise and calm seems to have drained away. ‘No one would tell me anything – I was terrified.’

  I gulp and try to get myself under control as tears slip off my nose.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he says, stunned, unable to take his eyes off her. And then he repeats himself. ‘What’s happened?’

  I hesitate. I have to be really careful. ‘I got a call, I went round to the flat . . . there were pills everywhere and . . .’ My voice dissolves into a mess of tears.